Deposit # 28

The poetry you see here reflects
over three decades of work. I have
changed over the years as you have.
If you want to see what I write
currently, visit:

I love and appreciate you all.

Robert D. Wilson

Monday, March 14, 2011

# 14

Robert D. Wilson's

Over 3 decades of poetry and haiga art

skipping stones
     across an afterbirth . . .
twilight dawn

somewhere else,
hoping something
will change
in the winter,
night became day

*election day 2008

a long day . . . 
the sad song of
caged pigeons

does the
river remember . . . 
when she
ventured through town
in a see-through dress

bored vendors
eye every move . . .
fruit flies

i cried
this morning, like
a child on
christmas getting
what he wanted

*Obama's victory speech

at night, 
i try not to think . . . 
tall reeds

without dreams,
i slink into
a death wish
painting blank thoughts
with hopelessness

tending echoes . . .

like always
i retreat to
my room
sowing dreams in
darkened harbors

he sits on a
carabao pondering
next year's winter

your eyes
visit me at night . . . 
why i left you
to stare up at the stars

* for Bobster

a typhoon,
your anger, tearing
off blossoms

*for EJ

you can't have
me yet, dragon . . .
your talons 
are mired in the
mind of another

      sleepless night . . .
listening to the
keys of glass

one day, the
mirror you avoid
will pull you
into a hell 
you can never leave

i translate
what tree tells me . . .
late morning

i listen
to trees, the voice
of water,
the song of wind,
the chatter of wrens

i avoid
the glow of stars . . . 
winter heat

a toddler
throws up on her
mother's blouse
in a bus driven
like a roller coaster

run if you
want, into the summer 
. . . i never left

      what is hope . . . 
the dreams of naked
playing in puddles
after sundown

where's the
father of the 
unwed girl . . .
begging for pesos 
to buy a dream or two

      between lines . . . 
a cigarette vendor
shucking winter

what' wrong with
an unwed mother
asking white
men twice her age
to walk through rainbows

     autumn's end . . . 
a beggar avoids
my eyes

like a
rabbit she jumps 
back into
the magician's hat
while i'm sleeping

always friday . . .
she left me for the shadow 
i couldn't find

this shadow,
the cloud hanging
over me . . .
a talon pulling
me through hell

i lean in
       to you, typhoon . . . 

      christmas lights . . .
i enter the night
i've hidden
year after year in
a semen stained room

     mute winter . . . 
empty faces too 
busy to care

shade me if
you want a truth winter
cannot hide . . .
your neon smile
blinks on and off

in the
jungle where I 
camped, the
silence continues
to include me

    mute night . . . 
what aren't you
telling me?

to those in 
a hurry to go
nowhere . . . 
a koi swimming
slowly through lilies

   christmas time . . . 
a bargirl stares at her 
baby's photo

when i pass
away, my bleached
white bones
will be wrapped in
fortune cookies

short night . .. 
every day i wake
up at noon

when i die
my ashes will 
remind you
of long john silver
walking the gang plank

    jack fruit moon . . . 
our drunken neighbors
sing out of tune

fragments of
thought, enough to
push the
clouds away, your
face in a coffee cup 

tu fu . . .
introduce me to
your cricket!

somewhere, a
mole pushing spring into
. . . rabbit holes

it's dark in here, and moist, the wind rushing past me and a thousands others . . .
 falling down, who knows what, a rabbit hole it looks like, but that was once upon a time, or so it seems, time passing like a thief in the night . . . dreams, thoughts, a hodgepodge of this and that, collectively . . . look there's Dorothy with Toto,
leaving Kansas, leaving us, leaving the dreams we dreamt as children, or maybe I'm a mad man, a figment of Dali's fertile imagination, a yellow post it note from the king of artistic madmen . . . falling, falling, darkness, DARKNESS . . . listening to music no one remembers or listens to, the world, a parachute jump into a bowl of miso soup substituted for a Campbell's creme of mushroom soup with low sodium.

Haibun From
robert d. wilson's
Vietnam Ruminations

End of Tet -
the marks on her back, a letter
Iʼd rather not read

At the conclusion of the Tet Offensive in 1968, a girl who worked as
a laundrywoman on our base returned after a three week absence. Her
back was covered with hideous burns. Her family had been tortured
and murdered. It was a reprisal by the Viet Cong for her working on
our base. She, of course, was an innocent. She worked for us to help
support her economically strapped family. Her alliance was to her
family, not to a political belief.  Like many living in the rural provinces
of Vietnam, she wanted to live a simple life free from anotherʼs

on the waterʼs surface -
a house of mirrors

Standing guard in the wee hours of the morning on the bow of
the repair boat barge I was stationed on, was eerie, to say the
least. You could never relax. Stories were told in the chow hall of
Viet Cong frogmen who traveled across the small bay we were
moored in, using hollow bamboo reeds to breathe through. Like
ghosts, they appeared when a soldierʼs guard was down. The only
sound during this watch was the faint lapping of waves against
the bargeʼs hull and the steady thump thump thump of my heart.
In the distance, gunships sprayed the horizon with machine gun
shells laced with tracers that lit up the sky. More than once, I saw
my refl ection in the water. At that time of the morning, at nineteen
years of age, a variety of thoughts and questions danced in and out
of my mind; some deeply introspective.

Saffron robed monks
sweep me through the temple -
this humid morning

I asked a Vietnamese woman who worked on our base if she could
arrange a visit for me to the local Buddhist temple. She smiled and
told me she would talk to one of the monks. She returned the next day
and told me the monk said it would be dangerous for me to visit the
temple. What the monk meant by that I will never know. I told her
to tell the monk that I wanted to visit the temple anyway; that I was
interested in the Buddhist religion and wanted to learn more. She related
that to the monk who reluctantly agreed to give me a quick tour
of the temple. He had a nervous look on his face when he brought me
inside. It was a dimly lit temple, the light emanating from fl ickering
candles and burning joss sticks. At the altar were three giant golden
Buddhas. The Buddha of the past. The Buddha of the present. The
Buddha of the future. It was an otherworldly sight. The monk gave
me a joss stick and taught me how to bow and pray to the three Buddhas.

in her wake -
a thousand bad movies
sheʼd never see

I am haunted by a photo I took in Saigon during the Vietnam War.
A woman is walking down a dusty highway on her way to work or
school. Behind her is a pillar of smoke. She didnʼt look back. What
was past, was past. Only the future offered hope. Many movies have
been made about the war. Most are cheap and exploitative. Their purpose?
To fi ll cash registers with dollar bills. Most people are clueless
as to what the Vietnamese people experienced, let alone the soldiers
who fought the war. War is not glorious.


The following tanka and the free verse performance 
poem below is in response to the nuclear reactor
leaks in Japan caused by the Tsunami and 9.0

      plastic spring . . .
rat poison falls
into the mouths
of hungry blossoms


fat cats,
crystal chandeliers 

to the
Beatles song,
$20,000 gowns,
black ties,
rich girls
in pig tails,
their yayas . . .
glad that men
are fools,
listening to
the greasy palm brothers . . .

the evening news
shedding tears
to save us all
the only thing
they save
is money . . .
our comfort,
an insurance policy
we can't afford
to buy

robert d. wilson


for the elephant
to be sent back
to the jungle 
It was stolen 
by the same
big bad rich
cats who
USE them 
for their logo
and belt buckles
giving a damn
that they'll be extinct
As in NADA
in the next decade
As if 
the elephant miesters
their wallets busting
their hired hands busting
their sweat shops busting
the poor everywhere
busting butts
for the rich 
who forget
that one day
the USED
will fight back
with a stampede 

robert d. wilson

That's all for this week. Keep the people in
Japan in your prayers and/or thoughts.

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